


Holly Jolly Christmas: a Bridget Jones Fic

by eggsbenni221



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: A/U, Christmas, F/M, Family, Holiday, Humor, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 18:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggsbenni221/pseuds/eggsbenni221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Billy and Mabel receive a Christmas surprise. A/U</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holly Jolly Christmas: a Bridget Jones Fic

**Author's Note:**

> I originally thought of writing this story from Mr. Wallaker's POV, but it's just not a Bridget Jones Christmas without Mark. Maybe next year. Merry Christmas!

Holly Jolly Christmas: a Bridget Jones Fic  
By Eggsbenni221  
Words: 2750  
Rating: T  
Summary: In which Billy and Mabel receive a Christmas surprise. A/U

Disclaimer: the author does not own these characters; they are the property of Helen Fielding. No Money is being made on this work, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: I originally thought of writing this story from Mr. Wallaker's POV, but it's just not a Bridget Jones Christmas without Mark. Maybe next year. Merry Christmas!

A flurry of snowflakes dusted the front hall as the door banged shut behind Mark. Bending to undo his boots, he debated over what deserved his muttered curses more: the weather, or the fact that his wife's routine failure to test the Christmas lights for their tree had sent him into said weather, five days before Christmas, to what felt like every shop in London.  
'Definitely the latter,' he thought, flinging his winter garments into the hall closet.  
"Mark, you're back." Bridget poked her head round the living-room door. "Looking particularly frosty too, and I'm not referring to the snow."  
"I wonder what could possibly give you any indication that I'm in a less than tolerable mood," replied Mark.  
Bridget smirked. "The fact that your gloves and scarf are scrunched in a messy ball on the hall table. You usually fold them neatly into your coat pocket." Mark only scowled in response. "Oh, come on, Mark. No need to be such a Scrooge."  
"Easy for you to say," he grumbled. "Snugly at home by the fire while I'm traipsing all over London looking for a string of bloody Christmas lights which, by the way, I failed to obtain, because every other self-respecting citizen of London with an ounce of common sense has already tested their lights and acquired the necessary replacement bulbs."  
"What are you talking about? Didn't you get my text? Billy got the lights to work."  
"It was easy," said Billy, appearing behind Bridget and flashing his father a gap-tooth grin. "I just plugged it into a different wall socket. Mum kept trying to plug it into that old loose one in the corner—the one plugs are always falling out of." Torn between amusement with his son and exasperation with his wife, Mark gritted his teeth in irritation.  
"I'm sorry," Bridget said meekly. "I know I ought to have checked everything earlier. I just—"  
"Forgot," Mark finished. "You also seem to have forgotten that we go through this every year, Bridget."  
"Well," she said, stepping toward him, "at least you didn't venture into the cold for nothing."  
"Considering I returned empty-handed," began Mark, but the remainder of his sentence trailed off as Bridget rose on her toes to kiss him, instantly warming every inch of him. "Yes," he amended as Bridget drew back. "There are certain perks to running errands for my wife in sub-zero temperatures."  
"Come on," said Bridget, taking his hand and pulling him toward the living-room. "We still have to finish decorating the tree."  
Mark followed his wife and found Billy bent intently over the model train set he was diligently assembling around the miniature village beneath the tree. Mabel sat curled on the rug near by, seemingly trapped in a tangle of string.  
"Daddy!" she exclaimed, jumping up and running to Mark. "Will you help me string these popcorn and cranberries?"  
Mark looked to Bridget with raised eyebrows. "You know how I feel about that particular custom," he said sternly. "It seems a ridiculous waste of perfectly good food." Bridget and Billy rolled their eyes at one another while Mabel continued to gaze hopefully up at her father.  
"I know," Bridget said finally. "But Mabel's been talking about it ever since her class at school learned to do it. There didn't seem any harm."  
"Please, Daddy?" piped up Mabel. "I won't make a mess. I promise." Mark considered for a moment; then gave a resigned shrug.  
"All right. That needle is sharp. We can't have you getting hurt. Or your mother, for that matter."  
"I think we learned about why people string cranberries," observed Billy, not looking up from the string of Christmas lights he was endeavoring to untangle. "People used to string buries on tree branches outside for birds, because they had a hard time finding food during the winter."  
"How environmentally conscious," said Mark. "I think I prefer that to the contemporary indoor custom."  
"Mr. Pittlochry-Howard also told us," Billy continued with gusto, "that gingerbread men used to be called gingerbread husbands, and women would eat them to increase their chances of getting married."  
"Imagine if my mother had known about that," observed Bridget, poking her head round the tree branches to wink at Mark.  
"If she had, my mother might not have resorted to such drastic fashion violations to find me a mate," Mark chuckled.  
"I don't know," said Bridget. "It certainly made you noticeable."  
"Noticeably ridiculous," mumbled Mark, still not entirely able to make his peace with the incident despite the significant part that hideous reindeer jumper had played in his history with Bridget.  
"You know what?" chirped Mabel. "I think Father Christmas sent that reindeer to help you and Mummy find each other." Mark and Bridget both laughed at this observation, spoken in the innocent assuredness of childlike faith.  
"Hmm, you might be right, Mabel," said Mark, kissing the top of his daughter's head. "Though I must confess," he added, his eyes meeting Bridget's again, "that at the time I didn't fully recognize the gift for what it was."  
"Nor did I," murmured Bridget, her eyes glistening in the light reflected from the tree.  
Billy rolled his eyes at his parents. "Speaking of reindeer," he said seriously, "I know how they fly."  
"Oh really? Enlighten me then, wise little son," said Bridget. "I've always wondered about that."  
"They eat magic mushrooms," replied Billy. The intensely serious expression on his son's face made Mark fight hard not to laugh at this observation. While he recalled reading somewhere that the influence of magic mushrooms on the telling of the Christmas story might have been responsible for bestowing flying powers on reindeer, he very much doubted Billy's version of the story was the one founded in truth. Torn between correcting a factual inaccuracy and preserving the magic of Christmas for his children, he was pondering how best to respond when Mabel interrupted his thoughts.  
"What are magic mushrooms?" she asked. While he considered his answer, Mark saw Bridget slip behind the tree, busying herself spreading its back branches with unnecessary care.  
"Well," he said slowly, "you'll have to ask your mother…when you're older. She knows more about them than I do, I'm afraid."  
"Mark!" He winced as a poorly-aimed sofa cushion sailed past his head.  
"I was just…deferring to your expertise on the subject," he said delicately. Bridget scowled. To change the subject, Mark glanced at the clock and then down to his daughter. "Well, Mabel, I think this project is going to take a bit more time, and it's getting late. We'll finish tomorrow." When she appeared ready to protest, he added, "Go brush your teeth and get ready for bed, and we'll just have time for a story." Billy and Mabel scurried upstairs, and Bridget disappeared into the kitchen, returning with mugs of Horlicks for the children and a glass each of mulled wine for herself and Mark. As she offered him one of the glasses, she reached for a book with her free hand.  
"Here. I think you should read them this one." Mark took the book and frowned at its cover.  
"The Dog that Talked at Christmas? Bridget, you know this is only going to trigger the conversation I'd rather not have."  
"You mean the conversation you don't want to have, but that you know you're going to have to have," corrected Bridget.  
Mark sighed. "I'm not entirely sure this was a wise decision."  
"But you're not going to retract it, because you're a man of your word," said Bridget, leaning in to give him a hug.  
"A fact that you're well aware of, or I suspect you would never have attempted to talk me into this arrangement in the first place," he admitted, kissing the top of her head. "But really, Bridget, must you insist on this now? Can't it wait until Christmas morning?"  
"When the children are already going to be unbearably excited? And how exactly do you expect us to keep it under the tree without them finding out? Besides, you know they're going to drag us out of bed at some ungodly hour. Do you mean you want me to get Magda and Jeremy to leave their warm bed at that hour and come round to deliver it? They've already done us the favor of hiding it, and besides, their children are grown. Magda and Jeremy have served their time. They deserve to have a lie-in at Christmas."  
"In other words," Mark concluded, "you can't wait until Christmas morning."  
"Well, no, you're right. I can't."  
"Honestly, Bridget, you're worse than the children sometimes."  
,"Mark, wouldn't you rather just get this over with? You'll enjoy Christmas so much more with it all behind you."  
"I'm not convinced of that," said Mark.  
"Well, you're going to have to face it, one way or another. Delaying the unpleasantness will only delay the sense of relief at having survived it."  
"That's the same argument I employ with you whenever we're bound for a weekend in Grafton Underwood. Rarely does it ever work on you, so I find your attempt to turn my ineffectual persuasive weapon on me highly illogical."  
"I'll give you one of your Christmas presents early," cajoled Bridget.  
"That, I must admit, is a somewhat more compelling persuasive strategy."  
"Well then, here's a preview." Wrapping her arms around him, Bridget tilted her head up to kiss him, daintily running her tongue along his bottom lip. "You can unwrap it later," she said with a wink as she pulled back.  
"Oh, all right then. You have me convinced, though I suspect I'm going to regret this. Go ring Magda. I'll distract the children."  
"Where's Mummy?" asked Mabel as she reentered the room and climbed back into Mark's lap.  
"She went to call Auntie Magda and Uncle Jeremy. It seems Father Christmas has an early present for you and Billy that he couldn't fit in his sack, so he left it at their house, and they thought you might like it tonight. Mummy's gone to call and ask them to bring it round. We'll just read this story while we wait for them, all right?" Mabel's eyes widened in delighted anticipation, but Billy, not surprisingly, looked skeptical. This might just be the last thread to unravel in the long web of Father Christmas deception spun throughout his childhood. To his credit, however, he only shrugged. Whether he was still reluctantly clinging to that last string of hope or merely wished to maintain the charade for his sister, Mark wasn't entirely certain, though the look on his son's face suggested the latter. Billy perched on the edge of the sofa, peering in mild curiosity at the illustrations as Mark turned the pages. The story told of a lonely old man who found a stray puppy at Christmas. Cold and hungry, the puppy asked for some food. When the old man incredulously asked why the puppy could talk, the puppy explained that dogs had always possessed the power of speech, but they kept silent because they knew that if they talked, they would have to go to work.  
"'but you'll talk to me, won't you?' asked the old man. The puppy agreed, and the old man took him into his home. And that," said Mark, closing the book with a flourish, "is the story of the dog who talked at Christmas."  
"Daddy," said Mabel, tilting her head up to look directly into his eyes.  
'Dear god, here it comes,' thought Mark.  
"Daddy, can we have a puppy? Like the one in the story?"  
"Puppies don't really talk, Mabel," Billy said sagely. "It's just algory."  
"Allegory," mark corrected automatically.  
"Right. That. It's a story that teaches people about how it's important to be kind to animals and learn to understand them. The talking in the story is just another word for understanding."  
Smiling, Mark reached out to ruffle his son's hair. "Very astute observation."  
Billy shrugged. "A puppy would be great though. Even one that can't talk."  
"Pets are a big responsibility," said Mark. "Especially puppies. They need lots of attention and love, and you need to teach them how to behave."  
"We'd take care of it," said Billy. "Walk it, and feed it, and make sure it doesn't poo in the house, and everything." While Mark was considering how to answer this question as vaguely as possible, the doorbell rang.  
"I'll get that!" called Bridget.  
"Can we go see?" asked Mabel, bouncing up and down on Mark's knee.  
"Just wait here. Mummy will bring it in. We'll call Auntie Magda and Uncle Jeremy later to thank them for keeping it for us." After several moments of murmured conversation and stifled laughter, Bridget reappeared, struggling to keep hold on a bundle of blankets. Quickly Mark stood and crossed the room, intending to relieve Bridget of the burden, but just as he reached her side, a small, brown nose poked through the edge of the blanket. A yelp from Billy and a squeal from Mabel was all the invitation the new arrival needed.  
"Shit! No!" Bridget cried as the blanketed bundle leapt from her arms and a white and brown-spotted puppy skittered across the room, coming briefly to rest at Billy's feet before taking off in another bid for freedom. The next ten minutes were a pandemonium of yips and shrieks from puppy and children that thankfully muffled the occasional curse from the frazzled adults. As the puppy made a dive for the newly-decorated tree, Billy sprang after it, collapsing onto the floor as the dog, now held tightly in his arms, planted its paws on his shoulders and slathered his grinning face with kisses. Mercifully, after a few frantic minutes of licking, the puppy slid down onto the floor, its tail thumping excitedly.  
"Is it really ours?" asked Mabel, rushing over to throw her arms around the dog.  
"Yes, sweetheart," Bridget replied, smiling.  
"Really? To keep? Forever and ever?" Tightening her hold on the puppy's neck, Mabel turned her eyes on Mark. Kneeling beside his sister, one hand on the puppy's head, Billy too looked up at his father. For that one moment, gazing down at the expressions of wonderment and joy flitting across his children's faces, Mark didn't care if the dog chewed its way through every item of furniture in the house.  
"Yes," he said gently. After another round of excited yells and dancing paws, Mark held up a hand. "I think," he said seriously, "that before things go any further, we should consider a name, shouldn't we?"  
"That's probably a good idea," agreed Bridget. "Every puppy wants an identity."  
"Well, that, and I'd like to know what to call it when it destroys my house."  
"Is it a boy puppy or a girl puppy?" asked Mabel. Obligingly, the puppy rolled over to expose its belly.  
"Girl puppy," concluded Billy.  
"So how about that name then?" chimed in Bridget, crouching to scratch the puppy's belly.  
"Let's call her…" Mabel considered for several moments. "Holly! For Christmas!"  
Mark bent and stroked the dog's soft, brown ears. "What do you think, girl?" Holly responded by licking his hand.  
"She likes you, Daddy," said Mabel.  
"Fine with me, as long as we're clear on who's the master around here."

Later, after children and puppy had at last fallen asleep, Mark permitted himself a second glass of wine and settled back on the sofa with Bridget.  
"See? It wasn't so bad," said Bridget, curling up next to him.  
"It went about as well as could have been expected," agreed Mark. At that moment, the sound of a muffled yip and a half-stifled giggle came from upstairs. Holly had, with Mark's very reluctant consent, expressed her views about her preferred sleeping quarters by curling up at the foot of Billy's bed.  
Smiling, Bridget reached over and took Mark's hand. "Admit it. You're not going to regret this."  
"If you don't mind, I'll wait until she's house-trained before I relinquish my reservations."  
Bridget laughed. "Fair enough." With a yawn, she rose to her feet and stretched. "I think I'm going to call it a night. Care to join me?"  
Mark smiled. "Ah, yes, I'd forgotten. I have to unwrap the rest of my present. Though if tradition is any indication, I have a suspicion about what I'm going to find inside."  
"You always seem to like it," Bridget teased.  
Mark stood and drew her into his arms, resting his cheek against the top of her head. "I've never wanted anything more."

The End

Notes

  
1\. I borrowed the Christmas factoids that Billy enlightens the family with from an article in the Huffington Post that you can find here: <http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/12/09/christmas-history_n_4378951.html?ncid=edlinkusaolp00000003>  
2\. I borrowed the story about the dog that talked at Christmas from a holiday-themed mystery by Donald Bain: A Little Yuletide Murder: a Murder she Wrote Mystery. I tried to track down the author of the dog story, but couldn't find one. If Bain borrowed the story from another author, credit goes to him/her. If the idea was Bai'ns, the credit belongs to him. 


End file.
